Mr. Rochester is loaded. He owns houses all over England, at least one in France. He is interesting and clever, well-loved by his servants, and worshipped by a woman twenty years younger than him.
But he’s ugly, and in a minute here he’ll be missing an eye and a hand.
Can’t have it all, man.
I didn’t have a name for it back then, but I noticed pretty early on in my life that I suffered from a condition you might be familiar with but can’t discuss freely in public, unless you are a heathen, because it is a malady called: Resting Bleep Face Syndrome. (Forest can read now)
I have talents, good intentions, and high aspirations. I am well-loved by my family and close friends. As a whole, my life is an enjoyable, satisfying affair. But when God finished knitting me in my mother’s womb, he took a step back to admire his work and thought to himself, “This creature is fearfully and wonderfully made. Might have gone a little heavy on the fearfully, though.”
Can’t have it all, man.
I have realized now, as an almost 30-year-old wonderful creature, that I need to approach any future relationships with a disclosure. Oh, don’t mind my face, I actually really like you; I just have no control over the visage. It’s like we’re conjoined twins; my face is totally independent, we just happen to share the head.
The first unofficial diagnosis came at the tender age of seven, way before I could have been accused of being willfully sly, malicious, or spiteful. Those characteristic female traits become available to us closer to the age of thirteen.
My parents and I went to visit a family I had never met before. The adults greeted each other, mostly ignoring the presence of the shorter people, and I surveyed the house, wondering how I should entertain myself while they spoke of boring things.
I soon noticed there were two girls around my age, hiding around a corner. Well, we had never met before, so it was natural they should be shy. Some time passed, they still didn’t come out. Then someone produced a baby (not at that very moment; the baby had been alive for a while), and unbeknownst to me, the baby’s presence temporarily relieved my symptoms, because as I smiled and talked to the baby, the two girls who had been hiding thus far, emerged and said, “Oh wow, you’re not as awful as we thought!”
If people automatically assume you are evil anytime you are not actively talking, laughing, or sneezing, you might have RBF.
This was a recurring theme all throughout my innocent youth:
Strolling contentedly through the park on a bright spring morning,
“What’s the matter?”
Enjoying the scenery during a family vacation at the beach,
“Are you ill?”
After someone sang happy birthday to me,
“Why u so angry?”
At a family reunion, thanking Jesus in my heart for all his blessings,
“No one forced you to come, you know.”
I figured it must be the eyebrows. Out of all my siblings, for some reason I was the only one who, by the time I was four, had eyebrows so thick I looked like the offspring of Beorn. Yes, it must be the eyebrows.
So I went to the waxing lady in high spirits, hoping I’d walk out of the salon looking more like that cheerful creep Michelle Duggar and less like that other creep Kristin Stewart, but when I saw my face again in the background of some photo, I realized, wow that dress looked better in the mirror, and also…
It wasn’t the eyebrows.
One day, tired of being wrongfully accused of unpleasantness, I prepared myself before getting out of the car. “I will make a conscious effort,” I thought to myself, “This ends today.”
I walked into the shop, behind my mom, congratulating myself on my improvement, imagining I was lighting up the room with my radiant smile. My mom approached the lady behind the counter, who came back with some eggs and noticed me for the first time. We made eye contact, and in that moment I knew my calm and benevolent countenance had touched her soul. She smiled and said…
“Why are you angry?”
How I wished for allergies then.
I am ever so grateful I managed to secure a husband and enough good friends who have learned to live with my face, and know I’m really quite nice on the inside, but only occasionally on the outside. I like to think I’ve improved, but I can’t say for sure because now I typically avoid being photographed, and when I realize I’ll be in the background of someone else’s photo, I stick a finger up my nose because even that is better than an evil Maureen O’Hara haughty gaze the Lord so detests…
Perhaps I have improved, though, because the other day, Graeme was already waiting for me in the car, watching as I walked over. As I got in, he turned and said to me with a smile, “You look so nice. Not just your dress; your face looks very pleasant,” then he paused and added, “you’ve been working on that, haven’t you?”
Yes, for a couple decades.
It helps that we live in the valley. I sneeze a lot more often now.
2 Comments
Leave your reply.